


Monogamy

by travellinghopefully



Series: Jamie and Malcolm [3]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A domestic weekend, oh, and smut....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't tell you how much fun it was to write my first Malcolm/Jamie fic, my first slash fic too - I hadn't realised how much I loved these two.
> 
> This really wasn't what I had planned for today, but it kind of wrote itself.
> 
> And really, don't play with ropes unless you know what you are doing, and I certainly don't. 
> 
> So when you read this, don't over think, otherwise you have that Twister moment when you have no idea whose hand is where.
> 
> If you liked it, please tell me, if you hated it, please tell me, if you want more, please tell me!!!!!

Jamie wasn’t going to fucking clean out side, like a 50s housewife. 

Malcolm always swept outside on the weekend, washed the cunting door step. Never shaking off growing up poor and the fear of the Social. He was adamant he wasn’t going to do it, next thing he’d be wearing a pinny – but the thing was, Malcolm would find time to do it on Sunday and Jamie had plans for him, that didn’t involve housework. 

So Jamie did brush and mop and polish – the closest he was going to get to going to the gym. The gym was something else he didn’t think about as being in his life, but you get to a certain age and you work at a desk and you eat shit, you eventually have to do something.

The suits and shirts went to the cleaners, the bedding into the machine and the ludicrously extravagant but wonderful, how many thread count Egyptian cotton sheets went on the bed. Jamie toyed with putting the Iron Man duvet cover on and deliberated where being extensively shouted at figured within his plans – and decided to go for the one from their trip to India. Their fights were astonishing and the subsequent sex explosive, but that wasn’t what Jamie wanted this time. Malcolm better be fucking grateful, and not critical of him doing his housework. And then he got reflective, sitting on the end of the bed (putting the cover on was definitely easier when both of them did it), it wasn’t “his”, it was “theirs”, he’d lived nowhere else for 8 years, it was theirs. Still, he’d have punched any fucker who told him he’d smiled. He was going fucking soft.

How the fuck could Malcolm work so many hours, he had more than enough money, he was nearly 60, he could stop, kick back, dabble in a little consultancy for big money, or for the thrill if he had to. But, no, he was off at yet another conference, working on support for one of the candidates for the upcoming leadership election. In a way Jamie was happy, as Malcolm was passionate about this guy, someone with a traditional outlook, knew his own mind, was even articulate, so much better than the manufactured shites they’d put up with for so long. But, passionate meant that Malcolm worked harder and longer, and fuck it, he missed him.

He’d had a quick messy wank in the shower that morning. He’d woken up hard, dreaming of Malcolm, rolled over to make the dream a reality and swore profusely when he remembered Malcolm wasn’t there.

The hot jets of water blasting him into wakefulness he had imagined Malcolm’s hands on him, his skilled fingers inside of him, Malcolm biting his neck just perfectly. He’d gently rolled his balls between his fingers and worked his hand up and down his cock, focusing on the head and the sweet spot just behind it. He threw his head back as he swiped his thumb over his slit and pictured Malcolm sucking him off, his hot, wet mouth engulfing him, his tongue licking and flicking against him. 

The talented wee fucker didn’t suck him off nearly enough, sex yes, Malcolm was a kinky fucker, he would never acknowledge this, but he was, imaginative, skilled, inventive and dominant and Jamie loved it. OK, honestly, never enough sex – too much work, not enough sleep, not eating – so never enough sex. 

He planned to keep Malcolm in bed on Sunday, so he’d do the fucking housework. He would miss the Sunday roast, but it would be so worth it (and he laughed remembering some of the things Malcolm and he had done before they’d been a couple). Malcolm was just the best fucking cook, a pedantic fucker, with everything having to be just so and no substitute ingredients allowed – but the food was amazing. 

He braced one hand against the shower wall picturing Malcolm there, with him, a few more rough strokes of his hand and he’d come.

Malcolm had texted him to remember to record the football, they’d watch it when he got back. An Old Firm derby, rare these days with the dive in the Gers fortunes – he had allowed himself a savage grin at that.

Fuck it, he missed Malcolm. He hadn’t stopped to consider how demonstrative he was. The little kisses, between his knuckles the tips of his fingers, across his collarbone, his shoulders, the hollow of his throat, his jaw. If they were home, and they were alone whatever the distractions whatever the work load, Malcolm always paid attention to him. And he hadn’t fucking noticed.

They were exclusive, fucking monogamous, they hadn’t been, but then it had stopped being fun and they’d both found all they wanted was each other and they might, even in the early hours of the morning in a post-orgasmic daze have talked about love. 

Jamie remembered a conversation about marriage when the legislation had changed, he hadn’t really been paying attention – he replayed it, what the fuck, had the fucking wee fucker been proposing and he’d just ignored him. He tried to remember how Malcolm had reacted, fuck, he really hadn’t been paying attention. Did he think he’d turned him down, did he think he’d rejected him, he felt sick. He only hoped he said something stupid about Elton John and the cost of flowers and which one of them was going to wear the dress. Oh fuck.

After the cleaning he’d settled down in front of the tv, an afternoon of beer and sport – perfect. He’d allowed himself a couple of whiskeys too (from the bottle he was constantly reminded to not fucking touch) and ate pizza, without a plate, with his feet on the coffee table. None of these things were quite as enjoyable as when he was being told not to. And definitely not as good as having Malcolm next to him on the sofa, that moment when he finally relaxed and curled himself into Jamie, resting his head on his chest and letting Jamie run his hands through his hair. He’d finally let it grow longer, and Jamie fucking loved it. Threading his fingers through the soft curls at the base of his skull, pulling him closer for a long, lingering kiss. Fuck it, he was getting hard again.


	2. Chapter 2

He woke up with a start, a hard slap on his bare arse. What the fuck?

And then he’d found he was bound, securely, absolutely no give. He could feel the carpet under his knees but he could see nothing, the cunting, fucking bag of shite had trussed him up tighter than a Christmas fucking turkey. All he could do was fall over and he wasn’t going to do that. 

They didn’t do this enough, didn’t take the time to play. Either the conference had been fucking shite, or fucking amazing – it was hard to tell with Malcolm. Whatever, he would tell him later, probably next week, giving the whole event a dissection and post mortem. For now, he knew, what Malcolm needed was to get out of his own head and that was what this represented. Jamie tried to remember the last time Malcolm had been this fucking thorough, it was probably part way through the Iraq enquiry – too fucking long ago.

The gag was one of Malcolm’s beloved Paul Smith scarves, he could tell, he could smell him and Jamie had a real kink for the them and they’d used them before. The blindfold he couldn’t quite work out and the ropes were silk. Jamie had asked and asked where he’d bought them, considering a shopping expedition himself, but Malcolm had just smirked, and given the subsequent activities he had completely forgotten to ask again. 

What was the cunt doing, he’d trussed him up, slapped him on the arse and then, nothing. Malcolm always told him how impatient he was, now he was making him wait. Fuck, he needed something, his cock was already aching in anticipation, he wanted friction, he wanted, he wanted fucking anything. There was just the faintest scintilla of fear, what if this wasn’t Malcolm, what if someone had broken in, what if...OK, probably, the blues record playing in the background, absolutely, definitely, positively meant it was Malcolm. Jamie focused on controlling his breathing and heart rate.

A hard bite on his ear lobe, softer bites down his throat, Malcolm (it had to be him, no-one else smelled like him, no-one else felt like him, no-one else knew how to do these things to him) his hard body pressed against his back. One hand dug into his side and he had to suppress his desire to giggle, now wasn’t the time to give into how ticklish he was. Jamie revelled in every nip, every caress, every small sigh, being bound tight allowed him to simply feel, fuck though, he wanted to move. 

Christ, he fucking loved Malcolm, he seriously needed to tell him that. 

Fuck he was ready for him, but Malcolm kept the pace torturously slow. Jamie knew he was marking him, not for others to see, but for him, telling him he belonged, that he was his. Every touch was thrilling, Jamie wanted, no he fucking needed more, he needed his hands free, he wanted to pin Malcolm down and kiss and suck him ‘til he screamed and begged him to fuck him. Malcolm took the gag away, and before Jamie could start talking (he never knew when to shut up) he was being kissed, over and over and over. 

“Fuck Malcolm” – was all he could say. 

Malcolm’s hand tighten in his hair, and the first thing he said that night was “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!” 

Malcolm kissed the corner of his mouth, his top lip and bit softly into his bottom one. His tongue licked across his mouth and he opened willingly. His tongue so gently touched his, and then he was licking inside his lips, kissing him and holding him hard enough to stop his breath and leaving him ragged and gasping. He would happily spend days kissing, feeling the soft open mouthed kisses, the tiniest flicks of his tongue, the lazy circles his fingers were making on his flesh. He moaned and tried to lean into Malcolm’s embrace.

Malcolm’s finger slipped into him, slicked and cold. He shuddered and moaned again, squirmed as much as he was able and begged for more. Malcolm continued to working him, hitting the perfect spot. Jamie found he could rock gently and attempted to fuck himself on Malcolm’s fingers. He felt Malcolm’s hand on the back of his neck and felt him breathing by his ear.

“Be. Fucking. Patient! Aye, love?”

He kissed him and bit down again, trailing his tongue down his back, pausing to kiss him more thoroughly every so often on his downward path, open mouthed and messy. Eventually, he felt his tongue where he wanted him to be, licking and sucking against him, swirling and probing, opening Jamie up under his touch. Jamie stopped thinking, he knew he was babbling, he knew he was begging, he was keening, he was near tears, he wanted Malcolm so badly.

“Hush, hush love, I’ve got you.” 

And then, the perfect moment, the hiss and gasp and moan as his lover thrust into him. Pausing for an infinity of seconds to allow him to adjust, as no matter how ready he was, this moment stopped his breath every time (and he hoped it always would). Fuck, Malcolm was huge and so, so hot. Ok, would the cunt not just fucking move.

Jamie realised that somehow in this, his bonds were gone, he could move freely, he had to hold himself still, he wanted nothing more to hold Malcolm close and tell him again and again how much he loved him, always would, always had. This time he allowed the tears to fall. He didn’t know how much Malcolm sensed but he felt him begin to move, his thrusts gentle and slow, one hand gripping Jamie’s hip tightly, the other beginning to lazily stroke his cock. Jamie closed one of his hands over Malcolm’s urging his pace faster and harder, the other he used to brace himself against anything he could grab. He felt he was going to spin off the face of the earth if he didn’t hold onto something. Fuck, he as a total sap, and he didn’t care. Malcolm was moving harder and faster against him, he could feel the heat and raggedness of his breathing ruffling the hairs on his neck. They were both so close.

“Fucking come for me.” Malcolm’s voice, broken and raw against his ear.

And he was helpless, his come spurting between Malcolm and his fingers. As he moaned and pulsed, he heard his answering guttural growl and felt the intense, wet heat inside himself as Malcolm came too. He sagged forward and Malcolm slumped against him, keeping his arms wrapped round him, his mouth pressed against him in breathless kisses. 

They lay there, unmoving for minutes, saying nothing, just breathing.

Eventually, Malcolm sat up and moved in front of Jamie. Malcolm cupped his jaw with his hand, kissed him tenderly down his nose, across his mouth and jaw and stared deeply into Jamie’s eyes – “Was there something you wanted to say?”

“ I fucking love you, you daft cunt and you know, when you asked me to marry you, what I meant to say, was, YES!”


End file.
